


A Tavern in the Town

by neolithics



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neolithics/pseuds/neolithics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier, young pub landlord of the Westchester Inn and part-time schoolteacher, and Erik Lehnsherr, pilot of the German Luftwaffe, meet under unusually peaceful circumstances in neutral Ireland. They both find, however, that when the rest of the world was at war, peace was never truly an option.  (WW2 AU, 2/?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This Cherik plot-monster has kept me up nights on end, and it truly frightens me to write it. I thought Ireland’s unusual position in the Second World War made it such a compelling setting, but as I’m not Irish myself, this story would take many liberties with the language, culture and history, which I apologise for. 
> 
> I do hope that you will find this botched AU historical fiction entertaining and readable, at the very least. 
> 
> Cherik feels, sustain me.
> 
> _Neo, 12-01-2014_

_1._

_The Westchester Inn_  
_Wednesday, 1 October 1940_

 

_Uncle Seamus has been not been himself since morning. His anxiety was apparent the moment I went down for breakfast, when he swore loudly upon seeing me on the stair landing. He declined breakfast, too, blaming a queasy stomach due to taking some milk on the turn with his evening tea. (I found that hard to believe, for he had eaten through many bouts of stomach-aches in the past.) He spent most of the morning shuffling around the pub listlessly, and every once in a while he would sneak glances at the door. He was extraordinarily snappish when I asked him about it, told me to mind my own business. (He’s stubbed his toe thrice by then, which might have soured his mood considerably.) He really did look dreadful, the poor man. Pale as a sheet. Judging by his boozy breath he has had a couple of pints, too._

_I’ve never seen my uncle afraid of anything, which is saying something when he’s working in the Irish army’s favourite watering hole, but he’s certainly scared now. I hope he would tell me why…_

_Raven and I are on cleaning duty today, but Raven has managed to escape her share of work again. She must have slipped out in the middle of uncle’s attempted assault on an offending stool (where he stubbed his toe the third time), while I calmed him. Sneaky get. I only noticed when I called her for lunch. Uncle Seamus was obviously livid; he had gone out to look for her. At least Raven would get a telling-off, for once._

_Two planes passed over the pub while I was cleaning the windows. I thought the glass was going to shatter, the way it trembled beneath my fingers. The sound, too, was incredible. A full, whooshing drone, deeper in tone that the keening British Spitfires that sometimes flew over us onto Curragh. I’m certain if it had flown any lower it would have taken our roof off. German, perhaps? Or American—I heard their planes were amazing. ‘Mostest of the bestest,’ if Alex were to be believed. I had looked up just in time to see the tail-ends of the two, grey planes swiftly descend near the camp._

_What business could they possibly have with the Irish, I wonder?_

 

*

 

The bell of the Westchester Inn tinkled. Charles Xavier looked up from the pint glass he was drying, expecting a sullen-faced Raven by the entryway. It was not Raven, however, but a man.

Charles almost dropped the glass when he recognised what the man was.

The man was dressed in a brown leather jacket, the pant legs of a large-pocketed khaki jumpsuit hanging loosely underneath, most of it neatly tucked into a pair of faded boots. A thick belt was wound around his trim waist, from which hung a compass and a lean-barrelled pistol in its holster, harmless. The man surveyed the wooden interior impassively in measured strides, his linear pace slow and rhythmic in cadence, entirely unlike the Irish soldiers who were a loose-limbed, rambunctious lot even without the lager. Charles had seen the pictures from a few issues of _the Times_ and _the Belfast Telegraph_ Raven had smuggled in from Christ knows where. This man was a pilot of the German _Luftwaffe_.

Charles wiped his clammy hands on his apron and inwardly cursed Raven’s name.

The German settled on a stool at the end of the bar. Upon closer inspection he was surprisingly young, probably not far from Charles’ age. War, however, was beginning to take its toll. There were hard lines on his face, severely accentuated by a stern jaw and rusty copper hair that was parted and slicked flat to his scalp. Charles felt every bit a boy when blue-grey eyes cut into him swiftly.

‘Where is the bartender?’ the German demanded.

Charles flinched at the harsh tone, but stood firm. ‘Well, that would be me,’ he said.

The pilot’s sceptical gaze swept through him from head to toe. ‘You look a little too young to be a bartender, _Bubi_ ,’ he remarked drily. ‘Where are your parents?’

So the stories about German impudence that he heard from the pub regulars were true, all along. ‘No disrespect, friend, but that doesn’t concern you.’ Charles retorted coldly. ‘What are you having?’

The German’s lip curled. ‘Lager, then. 2 pints.’

Charles bit his tongue before he could make any snide remarks and get himself killed. Indignant anger had fully replaced his fear. He owned the finest pub in Co Kildare, had been running it with his nan, granddad and uncle since he was 14, and no customer had dared to mock him or lord him around until this Nazi prick.

‘2 pints of lager,’ Charles announced acidly, the pint glasses clattering as he set them down with more force than necessary.

The German, however, didn’t seem too bothered by his peevishness. He had lit a cigarette and was gazing vacantly out the window—brooding, as Charles’ uncle had often done since the start of war. Charles was more than happy to leave him alone, though he was slightly unnerved by the silence, humming low and constant in his ear. With a defeated sigh, he pulled out the ledger from its safe drawer to distract himself with—of all the damned things—bookkeeping. It was excruciatingly dull but effectively engrossing work.

The stretch of silence was broken with the scrape of a stool against the wooden floor—the German had finished his pints quite quickly. ‘Good beer,’ he briskly remarked to a stunned Charles, his tone too matter-of-fact to be patronising.

Bewildered, Charles collected the empty glasses and the man’s payment. His eyes widened when he saw the generously excessive amount of shillings the German had left. However, by the time Charles looked up, the man had already whisked out the door, gone before Charles could properly thank him.

 

*

 

Seamus was raging when Charles told him about the German pilot’s visit. (‘You should have said the pub was closed!’ He rebuked angrily.) Raven, however, seemed equally impressed and intrigued, and not at all sorry for deserting him. ‘He didn’t say much,’ was all Charles could share about the encounter. To be honest, he felt slightly guilty over his spiteful demeanour after the German left. Perhaps the German simply knew little English, his conscience reasoned, or was inherently a man of a few words. Or maybe he really was just an ill-mannered cock. Either way, it was totally unbecoming of the famed O’Callaghan-Xavier hospitality which made the Westchester Inn so famous. His Nan would have been terribly disappointed.

To Charles’ further annoyance, he can’t seem to stop glancing at the bar stool by the window, where the memory of a beige uniform, stormy eyes and a handsome, chiseled face still sat smoking. Fortunately, it was a slow day, and his distracted mind only caused him a few problems.

At least until the German made another unexpected visit later that evening.

Charles rubbed his eyes in disbelief—did he knock back a stronger porter than he thought?—but there was no mistaking the stoic face and the furrowed brow. Charles elbowed a bottle of whiskey in his panicked flustering; luckily, Raven was there to catch it.

‘I did warn you against sneaking out drinks from Uncle’s liquor cabinet,’ she teased, but Charles had blanked out his surroundings in shock. She followed the line of Charles’ open-mouthed stare, and scowled. ‘Well, shit.’

The German had brought a friend this time—a shorter, stockier man with dirty blonde hair and pert ears—who, upon spotting Charles and Raven, instantly made a beeline for the bar.

‘Two pints of your house special, please,’ he said to Charles cheerfully, his accent noticeably thicker than his companion’s. He then turned to Raven and whispered, ‘I hear this is the best pub in town, yes?’

Raven eyed him warily. ‘Yeah, soldier. You heard right.’

The man gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Oh no, I am not a soldier, _Fräulein_ , but better! _A pilot_!’ He winked. ‘Ivo Adler, known also as _der Falkensicht_ in my unit. Uh, Falcon-eye, in English, because they say I never miss a target,’ the pilot explained, tapping pointedly near his eye when Raven continued to look unimpressed. He jerked a thumb at his more reserved counterpart, who had taken a seat at a table behind him and looked entirely unwilling to be seen in his company. ‘That sour-faced fellow over there is Erik Lehnsherr. I think you have met, _Herr Barmann_?’

Adler was certainly more effusive than his surly, tight-lipped friend. Charles felt like the reluctant set-up in a German double act sketch. ‘I have, briefly,’ said Charles. He met Erik Lehnsherr’s eyes over Adler’s shoulder; Charles gave him a small smile.

Adler patted his arm. ‘Ach, unlucky man. But I am here now, so I hope I made it better.’ He turned to Raven again, and coyly rested his cheek on his palm. ‘Of course, I am happiest to meet _you_ , pretty miss barmaid…’

Raven glanced at Charles and rolled her eyes. After years of seeing his sister attract unwanted interest from numerous Irish soldiers, Charles could read Raven’s thoughts as easily as an open book: _Get this nutter off me before I punch him, Charles_. Charles grinned impishly and shrugged—she had to suffer her share of obnoxious Germans, too. Fair’s fair.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to see to your friend there,’ Charles cut in smoothly, collecting two pints of stout and a plate of fish and chips. It had a bigger portion of fish and he had tipped in slightly more chips than was customary. If Raven noticed, she said nothing, but even Charles had to flinch at the murderous glare she sent his way.

‘Lehnsherr is a little shy. But he’s a good man,’ Adler advised amiably.

Shy was one way to put it. There was a kidney-shaped space around Erik where customers avoided nearby tables or pulled their chairs to a safe distance. The only person who dared to violate Erik’s personal bubble, as it were, was a dapper bloke who Charles recognised as Pete Wisdom, an English actor from the touring theatre company who arrived in Kildare a few days ago. Erik’s intense glare never once wavered throughout the one-sided conversation. To his credit, Pete seemed unfazed by Erik’s hostility.

‘Well mate, let me know if you change your mind,’ said Pete, as he slid a card across the table. He rose quickly when he saw Charles approaching. ‘Xavier, old boy! Lovely night in your fine establishment, as always.’

‘I see you’re up to your usual propositioning antics,’ replied Charles, grinning.

Pete leant in conspiratorially. ‘If you could put in a good word about the company, I’d appreciate it. Fellow has devastatingly handsome continental spy stroke terrifying German antagonist down to a tee.’

Charles considered the request. ‘A job for absinthe, then. I’ll put it on your tab, Pete.’

‘Good man,’ said Pete, and genially clapped his shoulder.

Erik watched Pete leave with steely eyes. ‘The English and their dirty tricks,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry, Xavier, but convincing me to join his "actor group" would be a waste of your time and liquor.’

‘Call me Charles, please,’ Charles corrected. He felt slightly buzzed; he wasn’t sure if he could lay the blame entirely on his sneaky pint. ‘Pete invited me too, actually, though God knows why.’

‘Did he?’ Erik frowned. ‘What did you say?’

‘I declined.’ Charles shrugged. ‘The pub needs my exquisite mastery of pretence, Mr Lehnsherr, whenever furious wives come asking about their husbands.’

Erik’s taut stance visibly relaxed and he chuckled at Charles’ little joke, a disarmingly gentle sound that caught Charles in the chest. He felt like he had won a war, and his conquest was slowly unravelling before him. ‘Call me Erik, please,’ the German parroted with a playful smile.

‘No interesting nickname, like the one Mr Adler has?’

Reminded of his companion, Erik’s face contorted into a mix of pain and embarrassment. It was a delightful change from his typical stony-faced expression. ‘I apologise for his disgustingly shameless behaviour,’ said Erik.

‘We’ve had far worse,’ Charles assured him. ‘I just hope your friend will not be too disheartened by my sister’s refusal to his, er, charming advances.’

Erik snorted. ‘I wouldn’t worry. That guy’s skin is as thick as his head.’

They looked over to Adler, who was drunkenly babbling praises about the Irish countryside and its beautiful women. Raven had not even bothered to pretend she was listening, her back pointedly turned on her suitor as she resumed her duties.

‘How’d you find this place then?’ Charles enquired casually. Conversation was part and parcel of pub-tending, and one he did extremely well. Erik, however, was a puzzle of a man who tended to say little, and Charles knew one wrong word would shut Erik off again. But Charles loved a good challenge.

‘The Irish soldiers from camp sang praises about this pub. I wasn't expecting much, but the beer was good enough.’ Erik pointed a forkful of cod at his generous plate of fish and chips. ‘You know, this is the most food I have been served in any restaurant since the war started.’

Charles felt his cheeks warm. ‘The camp’s still quite a distance from here,’ he said evasively.

‘So I realised. I had to borrow a bicycle.’

‘A bicycle?’ Charles’ mind immediately supplied an image of a Erik, grave-faced —Adler stood on the spokes of the back wheel, singing something likely vulgar in German—pedalling furiously along the fields of Kildare, as if they were to invade Ireland. It was too preposterous not to laugh at, to Erik’s bemusement.

‘I felt a little unwelcome at first, but I suppose I should expect that,’ Erik added musingly.

‘T-That was… you called me a _bubi_ , whatever the hell that means,’ Charles spluttered.

Erik raised an eyebrow. ‘Because you don’t look old enough to be even allowed in a pub. I was surprised you were left to look after it by yourself.’

‘I’m bloody nineteen,’ Charles grumpily mumbled, suddenly conscious of his round, pasty elfin face. Raven always did say, and quite crudely, that part of his charm was looking like a virginal choir boy. Erik, however, seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Nineteen? Really?’

‘Aye, nineteen. And I don’t just look after the Westchester Inn, I own it.’ Charles smiled proudly. ‘Family business, so the three of us—myself, my sister and my uncle—we run it together. Ah, speaking of the old fella…‘

Charles trailed off at the sight of his uncle Seamus, whose lined, square face was blotched red with anger. Adler lolled dangerously at Seamus’ side as he was roughly dragged by the elbow towards them. Erik sprang from his seat; Charles followed suit reluctantly.

‘Mr Lehnsherr, was it?’ Seamus gritted. He roughly pushed Adler towards Erik. ‘Tell your friend to behave and stay well away from my niece, or he’ll be batting his pretty eyelashes at me next.’ He turned to Charles. ‘Shouldn’t you be serving drinks, lad?’

‘Uncle, I—‘

‘He was just about to see us out,’ Erik intervened, casting Charles a warning look. He nodded at Seamus. ‘Sorry for any trouble Herr Adler has caused.’

Seamus regarded Erik cautiously. ‘Aye. Yer man better cop on quick. He got off light this time—any other day he’d ‘ave been glassed and strung up by the bollocks on the front door.’

Erik seemed to consider this a delightful idea. ‘I’d be happy to demonstrate if necessary,’ he said with a feral grin. Seamus’ face paled visibly at it.

Charles helped Erik drag Adler to the safety of the streets, past the subdued chatter and murmurs from the other customers, which sounded ominous even to Charles’ ears. ‘We’re usually a lot friendlier than this,’ Charles whispered apologetically. The bell tinkled as Charles opened the door, and the frosty evening draft immediately roused the inebriated pilot.

‘Lehnsherr, I think I’ve been compromised,’ Adler croaked, goggle-eyed and confused.

‘You don’t say,’ Erik drawled sarcastically, before barking a few harsh words in German and slapping Adler up the back of his head. Adler only groaned in response. ‘This idiot is nothing but trouble,’ Erik sighed. He smiled wryly at Charles. ‘Luckily, we’re leaving tomorrow, so he gets to keep his balls a little longer.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Charles tried to hide the disappointment from his voice. ‘When are you returning, then?’

Erik snorted softly. ‘If you’re just as lucky, we never will.’

Charles knew it was meant to be a light-hearted joke, but Erik’s words had made his chest tighten, the pain searing like a bad heartburn when he’s had too much to drink. ‘Please don’t say that,’ he said quietly.

Erik's smile made the world-weary lines on his face all the more startling. ‘I’d be happy to visit your pub again someday, Charles, though it means you’ll have to put up with unpopular guests another time.’ Erik’s hand was warm where it gripped his shoulder. ‘It’s a good place. And everyone could use an honest pint these days.’

Charles nodded, slightly embarrassed by the compliment. ‘They say you’ve done horrible things, but I don’t believe that,’ he said honestly.

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘Well, I’ve been told I’m a very good judge of character, and…’ Charles smiled up at Erik and tapped his chest. ‘There’s pain, and anger, but there’s good in here too. I can feel it.’

Erik’s blue eyes glistened in the pub’s cheery light. ‘I wish I could believe that, myself,’ he murmured, ‘but thank you, my friend.’

Charles watched Erik and Adler ride into the dark, open road—Erik’s back rigidly hunched and his legs strong as he pedalled for two, while Adler teetered dangerously on the back wheel. Adler began whistling a familiar, happy English pub tune*, which Erik immediately shouted down. The image of two, uniformed German men on a bicycle was just as ridiculous as Charles’ had imagined, but he had lost the heart to laugh at it.

 

(* It was a cheery tune that was sometimes sung by the regulars. If Charles remembered correctly, the first verse goes:

 _There is a tavern in the town (in the town!)_  
_And there, my true love sits him down (sits him down!)_  
_And drinks his wine, as merry as can be_  
_And never, never thinks of me…_ )

 

2.

 _Eleven years ago_  
_St. Faith’s School, Cambridge_

 

When the accident happened, Charles was sitting for his final History exams in a drowsy stupor. It was the end of summer, 1929, and the English weather was still pleasantly and sleepily warm. The room was quiet, save for the skittering of pencils and the occasional grunts of frustration. Charles had already run through his answers thrice, and there was a quarter of an hour left to while away. He glanced to his far right and saw that his friend and roommate, John Grey, had slumped forward, surrendering to the temptation of an afternoon nap.

All heads—John’s included—snapped up when the classroom door clicked open. Mr Roberts, who taught Maths to the third and fourth years, peered into the room, his thin face even greyer than usual. He approached Mr Barnes, their history teacher, and exchanged whispers. Charles was about to lay his head down when Barnes’ voice rang out.

‘Xavier!’

Charles immediately stood to attention. ‘Sir?’

‘I assume you’re finished with your papers?’

‘Yes, sir.’

His rugged face softened. ‘Then you’re free to go with Mr Roberts. Quickly now.’

Charles exchanged curious glances with John as he turned in his exam papers.

It was a short, quiet walk to Mr Roberts’ office along the pristinely white hallways of St. Faith’s. Charles, who was observant, perceptive and sensitive to the point of being almost psychic, immediately noticed Mr Roberts’ change in demeanour; his pale pallor had nearly become as white as the walls.

‘Are you alright, Mr Roberts?’ Charles asked. Mr Roberts, however, only shook his head.

They reached the end of the hall, and Mr Roberts opened the door with trembling fingers. There was a man inside; he had been looking out the window, but had turned to the door upon their arrival. Charles recalled the neatly-trimmed moustache and the protruded, bearded chin from his father’s photographs, a scholarly look that belonged to a certain Dr Kurt Marko, another research associate in the prestigious Cavendish laboratory in Cambridge.

‘We finally meet, young Charles Xavier,’ greeted Dr Marko. Charles shook the proffered hand. ‘My name is Dr Marko, a friend of your father’s.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Doctor.’

Dr Marko smiled fondly. ‘Your father has told me so much about you. Babbled about you, to be precise…’

A shadow passed over Dr Marko’s face, and he fell silent. Charles suddenly felt dread simmer up his stomach.

‘…Is my father alright, Dr Marko?’

Dr Marko slowly knelt before Charles and placed both his hands on Charles’ small shoulders. ‘Dr Brian Xavier was in a laboratory accident, Charles.’ He said softly. ‘I’m sorry, but your father is dead.’

 

3.

 _4 January 1941_  
_Kildare Town, Co Kildare, Ireland_

 

Charles clutched his overcoat close to his chest. He was out in the January winter at an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning, the stirring sun just peeking over the peaks of Wicklow with bleary rays. He thought back to his warm bed, and of Raven, half-burrowed under the duvet, snoring noisily. Raven hated the winter, and on colder nights she would sneak into Charles’ room and slither into his cot, seeking the warmth which he apparently ‘gave off in spades, like a cuddly furnace’.

Oh, but how divine a late morning and a thick duvet sounded.

But the holidays were over, and it was the start of term for the schoolchildren, which meant the resumption of his tutoring sessions. Admittedly, he got carried away: he had planned proper lessons and activities, including homework and tests, altogether equivalent to a 3-month weekend coursework.

Charles’ current roster was four: Sean Cassidy, heir to Cassidy Keep in Dublin, and the youngest member of the family closest to the O’Callaghan’s, his mum’s kin; Jean Grey, the only daughter of his dear friends, John and Elaine; and brothers Alex and Scott Summers, American boys who used to live with their mother in London, right across the Greys.

They started their sessions in time for the winter term of the past year. The first term was a resounding success; Sean’s academics dramatically improved (an event which even moved Mrs Cassidy to tears), while Alex, Scott and Jean all showed keen interest in the lessons and were eager participants. Jean, in particular, had an evidently brilliant mind, much like her father’s, though her harrowing experience of the war made her initially reticent. Charles had turned to his old pals Dickens, Kipling and the Brontë Sisters to coax a hurting child out of the shell, a tactic which, to Charles’ delight, proved to be as effective for Jean as it was for him.

Inspired by the tutoring sessions’ ‘miraculous’ results, particularly with Sean, Raven proposed to formalise Charles as the ‘Professor’ of the ‘Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters’; Charles found the idea grossly ambitious. The children quickly adopted the nickname on Raven’s innocent suggestion, but Charles was adamant that the children refer to their ‘school’ simply, and accurately, as The Shed.

The Shed was a brick, square structure which highly resembled an enormous wendy house, apart from the wooden barn doors on its entrance. It was large enough to fit a long table, a few chairs and two low shelves affixed opposite each other. Its rotten slated roof used to leak when it rained, though this was easily remedied with a few slabs of wood. On the west wall was a three-panelled window that opened out to a small porch, where Charles and the children had their tea during warmer days.

The Shed was hardly the mansion Charles studied in at St Faith’s, but what it lacked in facility, Charles made up with enthusiasm and genuine affection for the children, who he looked after beyond what is expected of a teacher—more as a brother, or even a parent. They were a responsibility that Charles was more than happy to take.

In retrospect, Charles had the bloody war to thank for bringing his little ragtag family together.*

A chorus of ‘Professor!’s interrupted Charles’ thoughts. He grunted in surprise when a ginger blur tackled him by the waist.

‘ _Sean!_ ’ cried Mrs Cassidy. ‘Manners, please!’

‘Mornin’, Professor.’ Sean Cassidy looked up at Charles and grinned toothily. It would have been heart-wrenchingly cute, if not for the other children’s raucous protest at Sean’s antics, most vocally from Alex and Scott Summers.

‘Don’t fall for that, Professor!’

‘Cassidy didn’t do his Maths homework!’

‘Alright, that’s enough chaps.’ Sean stuck out his tongue at the brothers when he thought Charles wasn’t looking. ‘And Sean, though your hugs are immensely enjoyable, I’m afraid it is not enough to bribe me off that unfinished homework.’

‘What about a kiss, then?’ Sean asked hopefully.

‘Why would the Prof want a kiss from a noisy idiot like you?’ Scott scoffed.

‘ _Scott_ ,’ chastised Jean Grey. She turned kind eyes on the pouting Sean. ‘He doesn’t mean it, Sean.’

‘But Scotty’s right, you know,’ piped Raven, now wide-awake and uncharacteristically sprightly, a perfectly-timed tray of tea in her hands. Charles, however, did not like the smirk on his sister’s face one bit. ‘You’re totally not his type, Cassidy.’

‘Oh?’ Sean looked up at Charles curiously. ‘What’s your type then, Professor?’

Charles mouthed ‘Don’t you dare!’ at the grinning Raven. ‘He likes them tall, blue-eyed and ginger,’ she sing-songed. Sean puffed out his chest proudly, only to deflate, to Alex’s amused snickers, when Raven added, ‘A bit mysterious, too… and mostly quiet.’

To Charles’ relief, none of the children noticed the blush that had coloured his cheeks, with the exception of a smug Raven and Mrs Cassidy, who only rolled her eyes at their childish lark. She clapped her hands twice to call attention.

‘Inside, before we all catch our deaths,’ she commanded.

Sean promptly shouted ‘Race yer!’ and ran to the shed, Alex at his tail; Jean giggled and gently pulled Scott along by the hand. Charles, Raven and Mrs Cassidy watched the children run up the path and into the warmth of the Shed.

‘That was low, m’dear,’ Charles murmured.

Raven shrugged. ‘As a sister, I’m allowed to tease you when you’re finally having your Scarlett O’Hara moment, aren’t I?’ Charles affably flipped two fingers in reply.

Mrs Cassidy coughed. Out of habit, the siblings ceased bickering and turned to face her. Peeking from behind Mrs Cassidy was a young, dark-skinned girl, her unusual, light blonde hair almost white in colour. The oversized winter coat that spilled over her hands and boots made her appear small and thin. There was no fear in her sharp, brown eyes, however, only wary curiosity.

‘Ororo, these are Charles and Raven Xavier,’ Mrs Cassidy explained. ‘I used to help look after them until a few years ago. Haven’t changed much, these two,’ she added with a cluck of her tongue. ‘I suppose I was too optimistic in thinking they may have finally matured.’

‘I’m not above a sly prank every now and then,’ Raven admitted with a friendly wink.

Charles nodded. ‘If we weren’t on rations, one of these cups would have definitely been laced with salt.’

‘Oh, you bet.' Raven sighed dramatically. 'Damn war’s ruining all the fun.’

‘Well, not all,’ argued Charles. ‘We still have the class…’

‘ _You’re_ the only one who thinks school work is fun, Professor.’

‘Oh hush.’ Chares smiled at Ororo. ‘‘I’d be delighted if you could join us, of course. We’re on Maths and Sciences today.’

Ororo looked up enquiringly at Mrs Cassidy, who nodded with an encouraging smile. The young girl turned to the Xaviers with a bright, excited grin. ‘Can I really?’

‘’Course. The more girls we have, the better,’ said Raven. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you over tea.’

Raven and Ororo chatted animatedly about the school and its evident need for greater female representation as they walked to the Shed. Charles and Mrs Cassidy, on the other hand, had taken equally grave expressions.

‘Another child from London?’ asked Charles.

‘Aye,’ sighed Mrs Cassidy. ‘Sometimes, Charles, your perceptiveness terrifies me.’

‘I’ve seen that look before,’ said Charles, Ororo’s fearless gaze in mind. ‘How did she ever manage to secure a spot on the boat, when she’s…?’ _Black_ , he finished silently. Charles bit his lip, suddenly furious at society’s foolish, misguided prejudices against minorities—against anything different.

‘Her father was a deckhand, I presume, but the bastard left her to fend for herself afterwards,’ spat Mrs Cassidy. ‘Fortunately, our lovely Eamon—you remember him, our seneschal?—found Ororo wandering alone around Dublin town, half-frozen to death. Poor girl hardly had any time to grieve for her dead mother, who was killed in the air raid.’ She paused in thought. ‘Eamon initially kept her a secret from me, for some reason.’

‘He was probably afraid you’d be angry when he took in an extra mouth to feed without your permission. Ireland _is_ in a crisis,’ explained Charles.

‘Oh, that old numpty. I wouldn’t take in so many foster children if I only had those pathetic rations to rely on, would I?’ She tittered excitedly. ‘My farm project is progressing excellently, I'll have you know. The other day I was able to collect two dozen eggs from the flock. _Two dozens!_ Not bad for the middle-class lady farmer.’

Charles shook his head in disbelief. ‘You really are amazing, Mrs Cassidy.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere, love,’ she said, patting Charles’ cheeks fondly. ‘I’ll come back for the children by lunchtime. And I’m giving you my full blessing to punish that lazy son of mine, too. Honestly, you spoil him.’

‘I prefer not to use violence, if possible,’ said Charles.

Mrs Cassidy chuckled mirthlessly. ‘If only the rest of the world thought that way, eh?’

 

* 3.1.

 _In retrospect,_  
_Dublin, September 1940._

 

After days of fretting and uneasy nights, Charles finally received a letter from John a week after the first reports of the London blitz. Apart from John’s reassurance of his family’s safety, it was not a pleasant letter—a heavy, unexpected bout of shelling had reduced half the Grey estate to rubble, said John, but they were one of the fortunate ones. Mrs Summers next door was lost to the shelling, and her son Scott was partially blinded by the flak. There was no other alternative, John concluded in pained, uneven handwriting, but to send his precious daughter Jean and the orphaned Summers boys away from the capital.

Upon hearing about John’s situation, Sean’s mother, the benevolent Lady of Cassidy Keep—or Mrs Cassidy, as she was known to Charles and Raven from a young age—had happily volunteered to look after the children temporarily, as she had done for Charles and Raven a few years ago.

Together, Charles and Mrs Cassidy met the children on a cold, September morning. Jean, Scott and Alex were aboard a rusting, grey cargo ship, with around fifty other women and children refugees, ferried from Holyhead, across the Irish sea and onto Dublin Port. Charles himself had undertaken the same journey ten years ago, after his father died. He still clearly remembered the feeling of terror at having to live in an unfamiliar country, far from his mum, Raven and his friends, and left to mourn his deceased father all by himself. He cried the moment he arrived at port and well into his first few days. His grandparents and his Uncle Seamus, however, persisted with cheeky jokes and warm, understanding smiles, and their kindness soon overwhelmed his grief and apprehensions.

The younger Summers, Alex, was holding his injured brother and a plainly-dressed Jean Grey by their hands as they descended the ship together. Unlike Charles, there was no crying, nor was there laughter or any emotion whatsoever from the children when Mrs Cassidy received them with a warm, friendly greeting. They only spared vacant, if slightly mistrustful gazes. They remained distantly silent even as Charles blathered on about his own experiences of emigration. In fact, the most Charles received for his effort was a grunt of thanks from Alex, as Charles saw them off to their room for an afternoon’s rest before their night journey back to Kildare.

‘I’m troubled by how quiet they are,’ Charles admitted to Mrs Cassidy afterwards, over tea and a shared cigarette. ‘Christ, I bawled like a baby for a week straight when I first came here. I’d have been more comfortable if they were, say, openly resenting me.’

Mrs Cassidy patted his arm in understanding. ‘Give it time, love,’ she advised. ‘You know best how a new home always takes getting used to.’

‘I don’t think settling in is the problem, Mrs Cassidy,’ said Charles. He took a long, thoughtful drag, and passed the cigarette. ‘Moving on is.’

 

4.

_The Belfast Telegraph, 16 April 1941._

_BELFAST DEVASTATED IN EASTER NIGHT RAID. (Photo: The darkest night: Harrowing scenes in Belfast as German night raid leaves the city in ruins.)_

_BELFAST, N. IRELAND. Northern Ireland suffered its most severe attack late yesterday evening when a fleet of 150 German planes dropped incendiary and fire bombs on the capital in an aerial attack which lasted for five hours. Initial reports state casualties are estimated at 650 people, with hundreds more injured. Factories, shipyards and personal property sustained extensive damage, leaving majority of the city homeless and unemployed. Recovery operations are currently underway, but difficulties are foreseen with the number of bodies that had been buried by heaps of rubble. Unidentified bodies are temporarily interned in St. George’s Market._

 

The Irish government had the press by the throat since it declared The Emergency. The papers offered little in way of political opinion and sentiment about the war, except when it concerned Churchill and England, who they prudently taunted at any given opportunity. Seamus himself strictly enforced censorship within the household, and had prohibited news about the war in any shape or form.

‘But isn’t it safer to know what’s going on, Uncle?’ Raven insisted.

‘You’ll know what you need to know, when you need to know it,’ Seamus said shortly.

What little Charles and Raven knew of the war, they learned from news clippings Raven had secreted past Seamus’ watchful eyes. The pubs too, including the Westchester Inn, were rife with lively discussion about the war—discussions which, naturally, were too interesting not to overhear.

‘S’not our fucking war though, is it?’ Bobby Byrne bellowed. One of the regulars, Bobby was a squat, bearded man with a large gut and an even larger gob. ‘We’re done playing foot soldier for the Brits. About time the wankers suffer their own battles.’

‘Some of us have families there, Bobby,’ said John Morgan testily, a farm owner and another regular. Charles knew John had a sister in Belfast and two brothers in Liverpool. He vividly remembered how quickly John’s face drained of colour as his Uncle casually broke the news about the Liverpool blitz last Christmas, the pair of them surreally holding the ends of a gaily-coloured strand of tinsel Raven had insisted they put above the pub windows. He never mentioned if he was able to get in touch with his brothers after that.

‘It’s not our war yet,’ said Seamus, ‘but both the Jerries and the Brits know that Ireland is in a key strategic position. They know that our line of defence is an undermanned and underpowered shambles of an army, and the old guard. No wonder the Taoiseach was quick to declare neutrality; _he_ knows our bare arse is ripe for the fecking taking.’

‘A brutal taking,’ quipped Bobby. ‘Look at the last number they did on the North. Fucking ‘ell.’

John glared at Bobby. ‘Listen, it’s not just Ireland at stake here. This war’s not fucking right at all. Jaysus, the things I’ve heard…’ John pulled at his cigarette. ‘What those Nazi scum have done. It would make the Lord himself tremble.’

Seamus looked warily over his shoulder, where Charles tried to look as uninterested as possible, while Raven leant over the counter in rapt attention. ‘What have they done, John?’ she breathed, eyes wide and eager.

John smiled at her tiredly. ‘’Fraid that’s not a story for your pretty little ears, love.’

‘Arright, enough of this miserable chitchat,’ Bob banged his empty glass on the table, to a chorus of ‘Aye’s’ from the two other men. ‘What about that race yesterday, eh? Great craic with the aul fellas from Rathangan—they were looking for youse, Shay. Anyway, put a straight bet on Red Toney and made a fucking killing! Nicked it right at the death, the magnificent animal.’

‘You jammy bastard,’ Uncle Seamus chuckled heartily, altogether keen to change the subject.

Raven and Charles looked at each other. That was that about the war, then.

The rest of their discussion attracted little of Charles’ interest. He was feeling sluggish—it was half past ten, and most of the older regulars had turned in for a good night’s sleep. Uncle Seamus had just tipsily poured another shot of whiskey (‘the last tonight, Charlie lad, on me mam’s life,’) when a loud, sliding whistle pierced the air. The chatter instantly died to confused silence, until the whistle erupted into a thunderous, rumbling groan.

Raven was first to scream. Charles, on pure instinct, pulled her down behind the bar. The pub broke into yells and panicked swearing, mostly from Bobby, who had spilt beer on himself.

The rumble petered out as the Kildare night resumed its natural calm. Bobby, John and Seamus sat rooted to their chairs for minutes, ashen-faced and sobered. John was first to regain his wits, and he pulled his dazed companions out of the pub to investigate.

‘Are you alright?’ Charles yelled at Raven over the din. She squeezed his hand and nodded. Slowly, the siblings helped each other to their trembling legs.

Charles looked around. There were a few upturned chairs and tables where they were hastily abandoned by the customers, but nothing seemed to be broken. There was even louder shouting outside; it seemed half the town had ran out to see what was going on.

Charles jumped when Raven suddenly gasped.

‘What is it?’ Charles asked, heart hammering madly in his chest. Raven only pointed wordlessly over his shoulder. Baffled, Charles turned around.

Out the window, miles into the dark, was a blazing speck churning out long, thick billows of smoke into the night sky. In the slumbering fields of Curragh, a war plane lay in burning ruins.


	2. Chapter 2

1.

 _4 May 1941  
_ _Belfast, Northern Ireland_

 

‘ _Target in range_ ,’ the voice of Hauptmann Mueller buzzed from the radio near Erik’s hand.

Erik glanced to his right. On the fringes of the black, Irish sea lay the glowing sprawl of store-houses and workshops of _Harland and Wolff_ , thinly framed by a smattering of jib and cantilevered cranes by the docksides. From the dim lights of the workshops, Erik could just make out the silhouettes of a fleet of cargo ships at bay. According to recon, three of these ships contained artillery and tank parts.

A sudden flutter of movement caught Erik’s eye. Beside him, Ivo Adler laid out another map across his lap, squinting at the marked coordinates by the dim light of his torch. On most days, Adler functioned as Erik’s life nuisance—a constant source of petty irritation, like an itchy scab that would not heal. But above ground, there was no finer navigator to have by your side than _der Falkensicht_. Loathe as he was to admit it, Erik would not trust his life with any other.

The radio crackled once again with a terse command. ‘ _Take positions_.’

Erik looked to Adler for confirmation. With a quick glance at the navigation aids, Adler signalled to take a hard right. Erik steered Magda, a sleek-silver Ju-88, to starboard. Another plane, a lighter Bf 109 fighter-escort, followed suit, pulling slightly ahead to their left.

‘Banner,’ called Adler over the radio. He cheerfully waved a middle finger at his best mate. ‘You owe me a full plate of wursts, you sausage-thieving bastard.’

‘ _It wasn’t me!_ ’ The radio protested.

Adler snorted. ‘Yeah. Keep saying that ‘til your lying face turns green, big guy.’

Erik peered at the clear, ink-black sky before him. ‘How many minutes before the run in?’

‘Approximately three. You’ve got that constipated look again. What’s up?’

Erik’s jaw clenched. ‘Sky’s a bit too quiet for my liking.’

‘We do have a virgin airman on board. Give the lad a chance for a gentle bed-in.’ Adler held out a hand to their new rear-gunner, a jug-eared boy named Karl, fresh from the A/B Schule and barely a man at 17. ‘How are you holding up back there, rookie?’

Karl weakly slapped the outstretched hand and answered in a small voice, ‘Just fine, Sir. Raring to go.’

Adler sighed at the rear-gunner’s obvious lack of confidence. ‘Boy, you’ve got two bonafide _Experten_ in the cockpit for a low-risk night raid, so I’d say your chances of surviving this dicky flight are pretty high. Ain’t that right, Magnus?’

Not wanting to make false promises, Erik made no reply.

The shipyard rolled on beneath them, the altitude low enough to make out rows of forklifts, stacked crates, and other shipments, the taller cranes then seemingly a few nervy metres away. The air sirens shrieked at the drone of the German Schwarm approaching, and the docks filled up quickly with panicked workers running for their lives, having finally realised the imminent danger they were in. They had, however, realised the danger too late.

‘Steady…’ Adler peered through the floor window. ‘In 20 seconds… in 15…’

Erik slowed down and pulled the knob to extend the dive breaks. He couldn’t help a small smile as the plane hurtled downward at a steep, almost vertical angle, its nose perfectly aligned with the target. He always relished this particular moment in dive bombing: when the negative g’s turned his stomach inside out, the pressure knocking his breath away...

‘Bomb doors open—‘

The signal horn blared as they reached 2,000 feet off the ground. Erik pushed the release button, and out fell a graceful rain of torpedoes from the open doors. The bombs whizzed past the docks and onto the fleet of cargo ships, successfully hitting two in an explosive cloud of fire, smoke and water that rattled the plane as they shot past.

Erik levelled off, allowing Magda and its crew a few seconds to recover. (Young Karl had turned an alarming shade of green.) He turned the plane to face the shipyard, in time to see Hauptmann Mueller’s own Ju-88 flatten a factory in seconds.

‘Flashy bastard.’ Adler yawned and stretched out his arms. ‘Well, that’s about as much excitement you can get out here—‘

Anti-aircraft fire suddenly erupted from behind the destroyed factory, catching all three men by surprise. Behind the curtain of smoke, Erik made out the shadows of a responding British RAF squadron.

‘ _Hauptmann Mueller, to your left--!_ ’ Adler barked into the radio, but Erik knew it was a futile warning. The flak rained in and perforated the plane’s body within seconds. Hauptmann Mueller went down in a thick spiral of smoke.

The RAF squadron dispersed. Two planes turned to their direction.

‘Magda to Ida, Magda to Ida. Support needed, they're about to light our arse up like a dance hall on a Friday night...’

‘ _I see you boys. Keep weaving, we’re all over them—_!’

There was an audible burst of gunfire through the radio, then the line went dead.

Adler cursed, threw the radio aside and grabbed the front gun. ‘How do these damn Brits still catch us off-guard when their tactic is to simply show up late every single time?’ 

‘They need a handicap or it won’t be a fair war,’ said Erik, all teeth, as he curved away from their enemies. ‘How many on us, rear-gunner?’

‘We’ve got two on our tail, Leutnant…’

Erik banked on the right and turned sharply just as the British fighter-planes shot at them. He made out a small nose and tapered wingtips from the bursts of flak--a pair of Beaufighters, the brawn of the British air force. The JU-88’s MG-15s could certainly not match its firepower, but they had considerably better turn-rate and speed…

Erik rolled to his left and took a hard turn, nosing downward to increase velocity. From the corner of his eye, he could see the British planes in close pursuit, just as he had predicted. He pulled up, _Magda_ screeching at the effort, and watched momentum cause both planes to overshoot ahead of them by several meters, putting them at a disadvantage.

‘Nicely done,’ said Adler. He fired a short, precise round at one of their attackers. The Beaufighter exploded and fell, lifeless.

The surviving plane wove right and left to avoid Adler’s gunfire. Flak scraped and whittled the fuselage, but the pilot carried on with remarkable calm, even when its engines had caught fire; at that point only a miracle could possibly keep it in the air. Erik had to admire the man’s display of bravery and utmost stupidity.

'Adler,' he commanded. Adler nodded and released the trigger.

'Why did you stop firing?' said Karl, alarmed. 'He's getting away!'

Karl flinched as Erik gave him a sharp glare. Adler, however, was more forgiving. ‘We don’t enjoy shooting down cripples here, kid,’ he said patiently. ‘But don’t be an idiot about it either, you have to make sure they’re totally harmless—”

Erik's neck snapped forward from the force of an explosion that caught _Magda_ by her tail-end. The right propeller spluttered on shrapnel and metal fragments, then promptly stopped; the imbalance caused _Magda_ to spin and unravel like a spool of thread as it plummeted at gut-wrenching speed. Erik was dazed from whiplash and his ears were ringing from the blow, but there was little time to think. He floored the left rudder and pushed the yoke forward to correct the spin. Magda rolled to a manageable angle, but struggled to recover from the steep descent. There was too much weight pulling her down.

‘Adler, we need to unload!’ he yelled.

‘Yeah, I’m alive, thanks for asking!’ Adler yelled back mockingly. He pulled a lever to jettison their remaining bomb load. Erik let out a breath when he felt _Magda_ gain a bit of lift.

‘She won’t hold out long. Air speed?’

‘180. Headings, 186.’ Adler pulled out his map once more. ‘We’re approximately 125 miles off-target. Irish territory, probably east of Dublin.’

Erik couldn’t mask his surprise. ‘We managed to cross the Irish border?’

‘Seems so.’ Adler grinned. ‘No finer place to be for a couple of touring Jerries! The rookie’s got a fair bit of luck—‘ 

Adler trailed off. Karl sat slumped against his seat, his bowed head lolling to the plane’s movement. The boy’s pristine khaki uniform was soaked with bright, fresh blood.

‘Not quite,’ said Erik quietly.

Adler pinched his nose. ‘Jesus. He was barely out of puberty.’

‘I’ve seen younger when I was in JG. Hard to forget them at first.’ Erik saw them in his nightmares: the dead with young, eager faces and empty eyes, like porcelain dolls in glass cases. The silence in those dreams kept Erik awake until morning.

‘That’s shit rotten luck.’

‘We don’t have very good odds ourselves.’

Adler sighed. ‘Always have to put a damper on everything, do you?’

‘It’s the German way,’ said Erik drily. He checked the altimeter. Magda was steadily losing altitude; 2,000 feet gave them little time. ‘You need to bail out now.’

Adler frowned. ‘I think you meant we, Leutnant?’

‘She’ll flip over if I let go. I’ll be along. Take the documents.’

Adler was visibly unconvinced, but didn’t argue. He took out their maps and papers and stuffed it into his jacket.

‘Lehnsherr—’

Erik glanced to his side. Adler’s face was uncharacteristically grave. ‘I’d kiss you if the angle wasn’t so awkward, but we might end up hurting ourselves.’

Erik smiled wrily. ‘I’d end up hurting you.’

Adler tightened the straps of his parachute. ‘Let’s look for that pub together, yeah? The one ran together by the cute brother and sister pair, with their beastly uncle.’

The suggestion made Erik laugh, despite himself. It was a lovely thought. ‘Yeah, let’s do that.’

Adler jettisoned the gondola hatch. ‘First round’s on me,’ he said. He blew Erik a kiss, and jumped.

Erik took another look at the altimeter. Magda was at 1,500 feet, continuously descending on a straight path at constant speed. Erik secured the yoke with his seatbelt to put on his parachute, making quick work of the knots and fastens. The plane’s violent rattling made it difficult for Erik to find his balance, but he managed to crawl his way to the open hatch. He found himself staring at the back of his rear-gunner’s head.

‘You got the easy way out, boy,’ said Erik.

Then he bailed out.

 

*

 

Erik woke to the sound of Bing Crosby being mercilessly butchered.

He opened his eyes. The paintwork on the ceiling above him was fraying and yellowed with age and tar stains. To his left was a line of wide sash windows and four beds, its pasty-coloured sheets collecting dust; and to his right, past the drawn bed-curtain, was a slim, white-coated man, humming along a Crosby hit in different keys, interspersed with what could only be described as yowling at the higher notes.

Erik winced as the man’s voice painfully cracked at the song’s peak.

The man swivelled around. ‘You’re awake!’ He said brightly. His accent was nasally American but softened with a mid-atlantic lilt. ‘Err… do you speak English? _Shpreken see English_?’

Erik scowled. ‘Better than your German and your singing, apparently.’

The man’s smile faltered at the scathing remark. ‘Oh. Wonderful. That should, um, make communication easier…’ He pushed up his thick-rimmed glasses and offered his hand. ‘My name is Hank McCoy, a stand-in medic here at the camp hospital. No need to worry,’ he added when Erik didn’t immediately take to the handshake. ‘I’m a civilian. And with no intention of killing you, as you can see.’

‘You’re probably instructed to ask questions which I’m disinclined to answer,’ said Erik factually.

‘Perhaps a few medical ones,’ said Hank, ‘otherwise it’s not my place to.’

Erik sat up, momentarily pausing at the tight pull of fabric against his chest. He glanced at his left shoulder and found it neatly bandaged around his pectorals and down to the arm. He felt slightly sluggish, perhaps due to a mix of painkillers, but otherwise felt completely functional.

‘The locals found you unconscious about a mile away from the crash site,’ Hank explained. ‘You had a partially dislocated shoulder and a few abrasions—nothing too serious. You’re a luckier fellow than most.’

On the whole, Erik had to agree. It wasn’t all rosy at first; his chute barely managed to pull him upward and had descended at an alarmingly faster rate. Erik later found out why—there was a rip, no smaller than five inches, which ran along the seam of the canopy and up to the apex.

While the chute struggled to keep him airborne, he had watched _Magda_ explode in a brilliant flash of light as she surrendered to the ground. He felt a twinge of regret then— _Magda_ had been his most faithful and trusted companion in all his years in the bomber unit of the  _Luftwaffe_. She had served him well.

The darkness made it almost impossible to identify safe landing targets, and the freezing gusts of wind made the chute more difficult to manoeuvre as it blew him farther and farther afield. Erik remembered brushing past a row of trees before crashing soundly onto a small grassy hill, the soft, damp land barely cushioning the impact. The chute fluttered towards the foot of the hill and he was dragged down ruthlessly with it, the straps slicing into his shoulders and the small stones chafing his back. With monumental effort, he twisted his body to roll sideways and let the drag pull him up, gravity coaxing his exhausted legs to run the final stretch.

The parachute finally settled and Erik had flopped into it, panting gusts of icy breath, the adrenaline keeping him warm in the cool night. He had completely lost his bearings, his only marker the pall of smoke from his wasted aircraft. His thoughts strayed to the body of a boy within, strapped to his seat, burnt to ash in a funeral pyre on foreign soil. It wasn’t a bad place to be, Erik had thought, as he looked up at the delicately speckled sky, thin clouds running through them like plane trails.

Fatigue eventually took its toll, and Erik fell asleep watching the stars.

He remembered dreaming of summer blue eyes and carefree laughter, of waves crashing gently onto white cliffs amid a flock of seagulls calling, and a warm hand firmly taking his.

When he woke, he was in bed, alive, while Crosby was being bloody murdered.

‘Did you find... others?’

Hank hesitated. ‘I only know of one other guy, and he wasn’t so lucky. I think you already know.’

Erik nodded. ‘He was seventeen,’ he murmured. ‘It was his first time to fly.’

Hank looked dumbfounded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There is nothing to be sorry for, _Herr Doktor,_ ’ said Erik. ‘We are at war. Boys, men, it makes little difference in the cockpit—up there, it’s a game of dice.’

Erik could tell Hank didn’t agree, but he didn’t blame him. Sending boys to war was a grim and callous idea to one who wasn’t in it. 

Erik noticed his own hands were shaking. He badly needed a cigarette.

‘You don’t happen to have a...?’ he mimicked a drag.

Hank frowned. ‘Sir, this is a hospital.’ Erik raised his eyebrows at him. ‘Oh alright, I’m down to my last few packs of Luckies, so you owe me big time. Pull up those windows, will you?’

Erik padded towards the window, opened it and peered out. A barbed fence ran the length of his view, splitting the visible camp into two sections. On the far side were perfectly aligned rows of wooden, grey-roofed huts situated opposite each other, the queue stretching out for roughly a quarter of a mile. The camp looked fairly standard, but Erik couldn’t shake a vague sense of familiarity about the place. His suspicions only deepened when he spotted a small, German tricolour flying out from one of the billet windows.

‘Which camp did you say we were in again?’ Erik called out.

Before Hank could answer, a girl barrelled in through the door, her long, blonde hair and her patterned pale-blue dress dishevelled by haste. ‘God, Uncle Seamus took forever to leave—‘

The girl froze upon seeing him, her expression changing to mirror the shock that was on his own face.

There was no mistaking it. It was Charles Xavier’s feisty younger sister.

And when recognition dawned on her, Raven Xavier screamed.

 

* 

 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Raven.

‘It was a misunderstanding.’

‘It was uncalled for.’

It was mayhem. The moment Raven screamed, Hank instantly leapt out from the other room with a furious, beastly roar, and lunged straight at Erik. Erik dodged him just in time, and Hank crashed straight onto the window, his forehead smacking the glass with a solid thunk, his glasses sent clattering across the floor.

‘Wait, stop! Hank! HANK!’ Raven had desperately pulled at the tails of his lab coat as Hank scrambled to his feet. ‘He’s that guy I was talking about!’

‘What guy?’ Hank growled.

‘The Lehnsherr guy! The German from the pub!’

Hank calmed down after that, but he never completely put his guard down despite looking pathetically battered from his spot on the far bed, clutching an ice pack to his forehead. ‘I expected that Lehnsherr to be more friendly,’ he grumbled.

‘Oh, you know how Charles tends to exaggerate. No offense, Erik.’

‘None taken,’ Erik said with a grimace, his shoulder smarting from his sudden movement. At least the nicotine in his lungs helped dull the pain considerably. ‘I guess this means we’re now even, _Herr Doktor_?’ He gestured at the cigarette between his fingers. Hank only scowled and stalked off to the other room.

‘Thank God he’s not in the British Armed Forces, or the Reich is doomed,’ Erik remarked smartly.

‘Don’t be mean.’ Raven lightly punched him in the arm. The casual gesture caught Erik off-guard. ‘Hank has his moments, but he’s a pretty swell guy.’

‘Always seeing the good in people, just like your brother.’ Erik couldn’t help a smile at the thought of the young landlord of the _Westchester Inn._ ‘How is he? Is he well?’

‘Very. Parenthood suits him.’

Erik coughed when he accidentally swallowed a lungful of smoke. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘He has five children between the ages of 7 to 11.’ Raven laughed at the look of utter confusion on Erik’s face. ‘Oh Erik, didn’t he tell you? He’s a part-time schoolteacher.’

‘...a schoolteacher.’ Erik’s posture visibly relaxed. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘The ugly blue cardigan probably sells it.’

Erik chuckled. ‘It does a bit.’

‘He really is a genius, though. Oxford and Cambridge have been eyeing him since he was eight.’ A look of sadness passed over her face. ‘If daddy hadn’t died, he probably would be teaching in some prestigious school, not tending pubs and teaching kids.’

‘If it’s any comfort, I think he would’ve liked teaching children better.’

‘He’s definitely got the patience for it.’ Raven laughed derisively. ‘He did survive _me_ , after all. Even our mother couldn’t do that.’

Erik frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I lived in America for 11 years with our mom until we couldn’t stand each other anymore, and she came running to Uncle Shay.’ She shook her pretty head. ‘Boy, did I give Charles and Uncle Shay a hard time, Charles especially... but it’s as you said. He likes to see the good in people, almost to a flaw.’

Erik regarded the troubled shadow on Raven’s face. He held out the cigarette. Raven stared at it, then at him, in disbelief. She tentatively took the offered fag and brought it to her lips.

‘These aren’t bad,’ she remarked appreciatively as she passed the cigarette back. She shot Erik a teasing smile. ‘I do wonder what my brother saw in _you_ , Mr Lehnsherr. He talks about you with the children, sometimes.'

‘Does he?’ Erik said carefully. He could tell that Raven now saw him in a completely new light, but he was slightly fearful of the girl’s enthusiasm. ‘He probably remembers me for the trouble I caused last time.’

‘That’s a load of crap, and you know it. Promise me you’ll drop by soon. My brother could use a little excitement in his life.’

Erik shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, _Fraulein._ Prisoners-of-war aren’t exactly allowed to go for a pint.’

Raven grinned. ‘Clearly, you haven’t been to the K-Lines.’

 

2. 

 _En route to Curragh Camp  
_ _1 October 1940_

 

It was one of the odder missions he had flown. Word round the mess hall was the son of _Generalleutnant_ Krupp had crashed in Ireland during a mission, and the _Generalleutnant_ wanted his son returned, come hell or high water. Rumour has it that a high-ranking official was even asked to join the delegation.

Hauptmann Koenig had been called on, and he had loped in Erik and Adler for the mission. There had been no prior briefing; they were given maps and coordinates and primly advised to take the transport plane safely to Ireland. Erik personally thought it was a massive waste of time; the Luftwaffe pilots and their resources were already stretched thinly enough to still accommodate trivial political missions.

He looked out the window and down at the green fields of Ireland, glinting invitingly in the morning sun. Herds of sheep and cattle dotted the fields, the flock so still that a novice pilot would have found them easy enough targets. At the edge of the field were a row of brick houses, their chimneys idly breathing smoke.

Adler peered through his squared hands with one open eye, as if taking a photograph. 'Lovely,' he whistled. 'A pretty picture for a postcard for the lucky girl back home.'

Koenig grinned. ‘They say the pubs in Ireland are fantastic. The women, not so bad either.’

'We're not here for sightseeing,' Erik grunted, though he begrudgingly acknowledged he enjoyed the rustic view.

The grey roofs of the Irish Army camp was just visible over the hill. Flying near enemy barracks usually meant hostile fire, but Curragh Camp seemed unruffled by their presence. Two Irish guards engaged in a one-on-one football game just outside the camp squinted up at them as they loomed closer. Perhaps spotting the flag on the plane’s tail, they welcomed the party with a warm, middle-fingered salute.

They landed on an overgrown airstrip inside the camp. Erik immediately took note of the camp’s vastly inferior fortifications; an unmanned watchtower marked the main gate, while the camp’s perimeter was flimsily guarded by rotting wire fences that slumped over like they, too, had too much to drink.

Three blank-faced Irish soldiers met them on the field. The tallest among them stepped forward. ‘Looks like weather was on your side, boys. It’s been piss-poor lately,’ he greeted, though his face sagged with boredom. ‘I’m Colonel Sullivan. ~~~~General Officer Bishop is currently indisposed and will be unable to join us in the tour. I’ll facilitate on his behalf, if that’s alright.’

‘As long as we achieve what we came for,’ said Koenig. ‘I wouldn’t want a 6-hour flight to go to waste.’

‘Of course,’ said Sullivan with a polite smile. He mouthed ‘wanker’ the moment Koenig turned his back.

Koenig waved his hand in a sharp, beckoning command, and the official’s escort swiftly saluted and poked his head back into the plane. He re-emerged a few seconds later, pulling down a collapsible stair down the hatch door. Erik stiffened as a familiar face breezed down the metal steps.

‘Fuck me, Lehnsherr,’ whispered Adler beside him. ‘It’s Klaus Schmidt! No one told me we were escorting Klaus Schmidt!’

Erik’s lip curled, his hands balled into fists.

Schmidt greeted Sullivan with a handshake. ‘Tell the General Officer that I am greatly disappointed at not making his acquaintance. I’ve come such a long way to meet him,’ he said amiably. But Sullivan caught on, and paled at the veiled threat.

‘Brothers,’ Schmidt greeted them, and they exchanged salutes. Erik tried to keep his expression blank as Schmidt regarded him with a wan smile—it took all his self-control to restrain himself from reaching for the man’s neck and...

Schmidt climbed into the truck and sat at the far end with Koenig, safely out of Erik’s clutches. Erik exhaled slowly. He took his seat on the other end with a white-knuckled grip on his knees.

They shuttled down a dusty road along the wire fence. Erik watched the passing scenery of soldiers, brick and empty fields to distract himself; at one point, he spotted a hole through the fence, large enough for a man to crawl through. He frowned, unimpressed.

‘Is it true about _Generalleutnant_ Krupp’s son? Is he really here?’ said Koenig.

‘The Irish Foreign Ministry confirmed it,’ said Schmidt. ‘His release is an entirely different matter, however. Part of Ireland’s neutrality policy is to detain prisoners-of-war from all belligerents until the war is over.’

Koenig hummed cautiously. ‘I mean no disrespect, Herr Schmidt, but shouldn’t the Minister to Ireland be involved in diplomatic missions? This is beyond the responsibilities of the _Abwehr._ ’

‘He will be,’ Schmidt sneered. ‘But for today... let’s just say I have other important objectives.’

Erik and Adler exchanged glances. Klaus Schmidt was an officer from _Abwehr III_ , the counter-intelligence division _._ His presence meant something was afoot, but Erik could barely imagine the sort of resistance that could form in the shambles of a camp.

They drove past checkpoint and stopped at the first wooden hut. It was a mess hall, empty save for a chiselled, fair-haired youth sat at a table, nursing a cup of tea. He was unmistakably German, an Aryan exemplar. He looked up at them defiantly.

‘Major Warner Krupp,’ greeted Schmidt, and saluted. To their surprise, Krupp did not return the gesture, but simply stared at Schmidt with cold eyes. Schmidt sneered and lowered his arm. ‘Colonel Sullivan, if you would be so kind to escort our two young _Experten_ outside,’ he said tightly. To see a Luftwaffe officer in an open act of defiance was a demoralising, if not blasphemous sight. Erik suppressed a smile.

‘I’ll see you boys at 19:00,’ said Hauptmann Koenig. In a low voice, he added, ‘Keep in mind we’re not fully welcome here, so keep your head down. I’m looking at you, Adler.’

The jibe didn’t sit too well with the boisterous navigator. ‘Looking at me, he says,’ Adler muttered, as two grumbling Irish soldiers ushered them out, ‘when I’m subtle as air.’

‘Subtle as flatulence, you mean.’

Adler rolled his eyes. ‘Fart jokes, Lehnsherr? Really?’

‘How else will we kill time?’ said Erik flatly.

Adler turned to the Irish soldiers with a wide grin. His affable demeanour which challenged the angry German stereotype seemed to terrify them. ‘What do you boys do for fun out here?’ 

The Irish looked at each other. ‘It’s usually a pint at aul Shay’s place, the Westchester Inn,’ said one soldier.

‘ _The Westchester Inn._ A god-honest Irish pub if I ever heard of one. Surely worth a visit, eh, Magnus?’ Erik merely grunted. ‘And where do we find this marvelous Westchester Inn?’

The soldier shrugged. ‘You’ll need to take a bicycle.'

 

3. 

 _5 May 1941_  
_K-Lines (No. 2 Internment Camp)  
_ _Curragh Camp_

 

The Irish camp was as shabby as Erik remembered, but with some improvements. Some huts had been painted with a fresh coat of white and the wire fences fortified with barbed entanglements. The gaping man-sized hole through the fence, however, remained.

What was most extraordinary was his soldier escort, who turned out to be the very same god-given emissary of the Westchester Inn. The Irish soldier was called Macca, Erik learned, when he warmly asked for his name. Macca did not completely share Erik’s genial mood, for he had never forgotten how the other German, the noisy one, had harassed him into lending his bicycle against his will.

They rode deeper into camp, passing round a fenced section of several billets and—Erik took a longer look, just to be sure—a squash court. Macca explained that this was the ‘B’ camp, where they interned the Allied POWs.

A group of men, naked to the waist, were hanging laundry on makeshift clotheslines outside a billet. The chatter instantly died when they saw Erik. As he passed, they raised their arms and, together, broke into song:

 _There were 10 German bombers in the air,_  
_There were 10 German bombers in the air,_  
_There were 10 German bombers, 10 German bombers,  
_ _10 German bombers in the air!_

 _And the RAF from England shot 1 down,_  
_And the RAF from England shot 1 down,_  
_And the RAF from England, RAF from England,  
_ _RAF from England shot 1 down!_

‘Charming,’ Erik remarked, as they sped away from the jeering Englishmen.

‘Charming is about right,’ said Macca. ‘One of youse got hit with pig shit when we passed by once.’

Macca pulled to a stop at the end of a grassy corridor. Low, corrugated metal fences walled the path and converged at a wooden hut, where two guards were posted by the door. He climbed out and gestured for Erik to follow him. Erik had half the mind to make a run for it, just to see the laid-back Irish soldiers on their toes.

‘Alright, Macca?’ greeted a guard. He nodded towards Erik. ‘See we’ve got a stray again.’

‘G camp, eh? We’ve been getting his likes more often these days,’ said the other.

‘Easy to get lost in the mess,’ said Erik.

‘Aye, the mess yer lot made in the North.’ The guard spat. ‘Well, make yerself comfortable, we’re not shy on hospitality. The General Officer made sure of that.’

Erik glanced at Macca enquiringly. The soldier shrugged and conceded, ‘It _is_ ridiculous.’

The portly officer at the parole hut handed him a small envelope atop two sets of shirts, trousers, pants and socks without question or introduction. ‘Yer week’s allowance of £21, Leutnant Lehnsherr. Aye, a’know yer name fella. Sign’ere,’ he said, his accent as thick as the stubby finger pointed at the space beside Erik’s name. Erik signed the ledger warily. He had barely lifted the pen when the officer slammed the book shut and recited the rules:

‘Arright ye Nazi cock, rules in ere a simple like. Mealsre served ayer mess all, brekkie’s a 07:00, lunch 13:00, tea 16:00, and light snacks a 19:00. Hot shower’s from 18:00 to 21:30. Blackout’s a 22:00, but yerse a lamp fyer fancy a bit’o bedtime readin. Youse got 3 days parole and 1 day fer Church. Yer expected to return the compound a’the time stated nyer day pass, else ye forfeit yer parole. Ye stick yer nose in any war business and ye forfeit yer parole. Questions? None? Sound. Macca, escort the la to G2, he’s roomin with tha noisy prick.’

Despite Erik’s excellent grasp of English, the officer’s lilting Irish accent delivered at a commentator’s bruising pace made it seem like he was speaking in tongues. Macca was unsympathetic and merely smirked at Erik’s open-mouthed disbelief as he led him out a fence door, where a large wooden sign that read ‘G CAMP’ hung overhead.

Erik had mere seconds to take in his surroundings when a stocky man wrapped him in a bearhug and bussed his cheeks, yelling ‘ _You lucky little fucker!’_ in his ear. It was Adler. Erik blamed it on the absurdity of the morning’s events, but the familiar sight of his navigator flooded him with huge relief.

‘I saw Magda go down, and I thought, for sure...’ Adler repeatedly smacked Erik cheeks. ‘Should’ve known you’d be a survivor, eh Magnus!’

 _Survivor._ Erik hated the word. He masked his unease with irritation as he swatted Adler’s hands away. ‘Looks like you’ve settled down alright,’ he said drily.

‘Easy to do when you’re amongst friends,’ he grinned. ‘Ey Banner! Look who’s here!’

A group of men in shirts and tracksuits had jogged out from behind a billet in an orderly file, the brawny fighter pilot conspicuously among them. His face brightened upon seeing Erik, and he fell out of line and jogged over. Erik was quick to notice Banner’s bandaged head and the charred scalp peeking from beneath as they shook hands. ‘Thought we’d lost you, Leutnant Lehnsherr,’ Banner greeted.

‘I’d say the same for you, Feldwebel Banner.’

‘Didn’t quite go to plan, did it?’

Erik grinned. ‘Does it ever?’

‘Tell you what boys, here’s what’s going to plan.’ Adler threw his arms around their shoulders. ‘You got your day passes?’

‘Day pass?’

‘It’s only the most important paper in the envelope, Lehnsherr. Didn’t you pay attention when they explained the house rules?’

Erik scowled, unable to admit that he didn’t understand a single word. He moodily pulled out a piece of paper from the envelope. It read: _I hereby promise to be back in the compound at ____o'clock and, during my absence, not to take part in any activity connected with the war or prejudicial to the interests of the Irish state._

‘Banner?’

‘I have one left.’

‘Excellent,’ Adler’s arms tightened around them, ‘cos I’m feeling a little thirsty.’

Banner goggled at him. ‘We’re seriously drinking at nine in the morning?’

‘Now, now, young man, that kind of talk is unbecoming of a German!’

Erik had tuned out the bickering pilots as he stared at the slip of paper in disbelief. He had buried any hope of reunion with the young landlord of the Westchester Inn along with many other hopes, the thought cocooned as a warm, distant memory to look back to on lonely nights. But there, in his very hands, was that unlikely opportunity.

‘The pub’s 5 miles from here and we don’t have any means of transportation,’ said Banner, matter-of-fact.

‘How do you think Lehnsherr got here, through the fucking Parachute Division?’

‘In a truck,’ said Erik conclusively. He looked around and spotted Macca by the fence door, smoking. ‘Ey, Macca!’

Macca looked up and saw three Germans leering at him. He frowned, confused, until the day pass in the new fella’s hand caught his eye.

By the time the penny had fully dropped and Macca realised what was about to happen— _again_ —the German bastards had grabbed him 'round the shoulders and marched him out the door.

 

4.

 

Charles clucked his tongue at the lovely view of a blue, summer sky, right through a gaping hole on the Shed’s roof. Years of rain and sleet had pounded at it viciously until a section caved into a heap of broken shingle, wood and dust that scared Charles half to death the previous morning. He had thanked every saint he knew that the children didn’t have lessons that day.

He managed to procure enough wood scrap from Bobby Byrne, his uncle’s good mate, to patch it up temporarily. The job would easily take half a day, not considering Ireland’s notoriety for moody weather. He had to work fast to make it in time for the children’s session the next day.

After making quick work of the measurements, Charles had stepped out and around the side of the Shed to gather the wood when he spotted two figures milling around the pub. Charles glanced at his watch with a puzzled frown; quarter to nine in the morning was a little too early for a pint, even for the Irish. It was hard to tell if they were the army, POWs or civilians from that distance. Kildare Town had seen a growing mix of the first two since the start of the war, in particular the POWs from the Curragh Camp, where the Westchester Inn was apparently quite popular. Though it was good for business, it made regular patrons and even Uncle Seamus himself anxious.

The paranoia wasn’t all unfounded. There were ill rumours about the IRA’s growing pro-Nazi sentiment; certain factions have allegedly begun to feed intelligence reports to the _Abwehr._ The British government, recognising the disastrous implications of losing Ireland to the Germans, had established their own underground intelligence network to monitor and pre-empt enemy activities. It was a fantastic story—a simple, quiet town like Kildare embroiled in a world of spies and saboteurs, in the world of Raven’s pocket novels and the children’s comic books—Charles admittedly found it difficult to wrap his head around it.

The men walked around the pub, peering into windows and knocking on doors, and when they received no answer they reconvened and bickered rather heatedly. The lack of regard for discretion made Charles rule out his initial suspicions, but he sensed something peculiar about the two. Excitement was gnawing at the pit of his stomach, as if something extraordinary was about to happen.

Charles squared his jaw and strode off towards his unknown guests, several wood planks still in arm. From a closer distance he made out one to be a tank of a man at least 6 foot high, with tufts of hair sticking out from the bandages wrapped around his head; even a fool would think twice to fight him. The other man, however... Charles scrunched his eyes, his pulse picking up pace. He immediately recognised the jug ears and the stocky built.

Don’t be ridiculous, Charles thought firmly. His mind had played this trick a thousand times before.

A warm hand gripped his shoulder. ‘Looks like you could use a bit of help, _Bubi_ ,’ said a familiar, fluted voice in his ear.

Charles whirled around. He had forgotten about the planks of wood, and it swung with some velocity towards the lean, solid form of Erik Lehnsherr, who barely managed to stop the planks with his arm in a crucial second.

‘Erik,’ said Charles dumbly.

'Hello, old friend.' Erik grinned despite the pain. ‘It’s lovely to see you too.’

 

*

 

Charles glanced over his shoulder. It was no dream—Erik Lehnsherr was back in his pub, twirling a coin round his knuckles as he brooded at an assortment of liquors across the bar. He had a shadow of a beard and appeared slightly thinner than before, but the unkempt appearance did not make him any less handsome. In fact, the man looked positively radiant in Charles’ eyes; Raven would be absolutely disgusted with him if she learnt of it. Charles tried to focus on the coffee he was pouring, conscious of masking his excitement. He had to keep it cool, as his sister would say.

Charles laid out the mug of coffee with a plate of steaming meat pie. Erik seemed surprised. ‘I don’t recall ordering food,’ he said.

‘It’s on the house,’ said Charles. ‘Consider it as thanks for recruiting able hands to fix my roof.’

‘It’s the least we can do for causing trouble last time. Not to mention it’s more productive work than drinking in the morning.’

‘Aye, but it would be a shame to let a good pie go to waste when there’s a war on, don’t you think?’

Charles knew it was his victory when Erik’s lips quirked into a little smile. Erik took a hearty bite, and the look of delight on his face was unforgettable. ‘This is delicious,’ he said around a mouthful of pie.

‘Uncle Shay would be happy to hear that. It’s a family recipe, but we had to make do with the rations.’

Erik seemed to consider his answer for a moment. ‘How have things been like around here, since the war started?’

‘Oh, it’s been terrible. We haven’t had a proper cup of tea in months,’ said Charles lightly. Little Jean Grey’s sullen face as she got off a boat at Dublin Port flashed in Charles’ mind, and he immediately sobered. ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like across the sea. They’ve taken the brunt of the war, and people must live in constant fear... and the poor children, forced to endure horrors they’re much too young for. It’s a shard to the heart, old grievances with the English aside.’

Erik’s face paled at his statement, and Charles’ heart seized up—has he said too much? He certainly had no intention of hurting or offending Erik, but Charles was not one to shy away from the truth. He wanted to believe Erik wouldn’t, either.

After a tense pause, Erik said, ‘I have been responsible for unspeakable things, Charles. But I hope you can believe me when I say I take neither pride nor pleasure in what I do.’

‘Of course I can believe that,’ said Charles eagerly. ‘Didn’t I say before? I see good in you, too.’

Erik scoffed at Charles' compliment, but the tension in his shoulders visibly eased, as if a burden had been lifted from him. ‘You’d be the only one. But thank you.’

‘Oh come now, it’s too lovely a morning to have this kind of talk,’ said Charles. He hoped his ears weren’t as red as they felt. ‘I’m more interested to know what brings you back to our little town, this time around?’

‘Well.’ Erik actually looked a little sheepish. ‘I got shot down.’

Charles eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘I had a run-in with the RAF a few days ago. My plane crashed somewhere east of Dublin, so I was taken to a hospital in the camp—nothing too serious,’ said Erik immediately at the look of alarm on Charles’ face. ‘Just a bit of bruising from my parachute. If I understood the accent correctly, it seems I’m now, uh, a prisoner of war...’

Charles’ mind shot back to the fighter plane that exploded just outside Kildare a few weeks before. He remembered quite vividly how he was collecting plates and glasses and straightening out upturned tables and chairs—the aftermath of the panic caused by the night’s events—when his uncle broke the news that there were bodies in the cockpit. The numbing thought of Erik’s burnt corpse caused Charles to break the pint glass he was holding, to his uncle’s bewilderment. He pressed his uncle for news day after day, but apart from the fact that it was a German plane, there was no confirmation on the identity of the deceased pilots. Charles spent days agonising over the possibility of Erik’s death.

It could have easily been, but Erik somehow made it in one piece. Charles discreetly crossed himself and offered a prayer of thanks.

‘I met your sister at the hospital, did she tell you?’

‘Raven?’ Charles repeated thickly. That explained the smug expression that Raven constantly wore around him the past few days. He was going to bloody murder her. ‘Must’ve slipped her mind. Uncle Seamus doesn’t agree to her working part-time at a military hospital, so we try not to talk about it. You’ve met Hank, then?’

‘The American doctor? I certainly have.’ After a pregnant pause, Erik added, ‘I think he likes your sister.’

Charles laughed loudly at that. ‘Oh dear, was it that obvious? He’s a lovely chap, Hank. I feel a little sorry for dumping Raven on him.’

‘I’m sure she’s a welcome distraction,’ said Erik. ‘She is quite the character, your sister. She said some interesting things about you, too.’

‘Did she now?’ Charles narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the German’s toothy smirk.

‘She told me you were a schoolteacher, which I thought made complete sense.’

‘I get that a lot.’ Charles sighed. ‘What gave it away this time?’

‘The cardigan was quite obvious,’ teased Erik. ‘Don’t worry, it suits you. Brings out the blue in your eyes.’

Charles wasn’t sure what to make of Erik’s remark; the German gave nothing away as he dug straight back into his pie, as if he had only made a passing comment about the weather. Since their first meeting Raven had made her opinion on Erik quite clear, an idea that Charles rebuffed repeatedly. The notion of a homosexual military officer in Nazi Germany seemed unlikely; one that is interested in Charles, even more so. But it was difficult to ignore how Erik’s eyes occasionally flickered up to watch him potter about self-consciously, sorting glasses and bottles that were already sorted, wiping down tables that were perfectly clean. Once or twice Charles thought he saw a tiny smile, but that was probably pushing it. Raven’s suggestion had most certainly addled his mind, and in that state it would be stupid to trust his senses.

Luckily for Charles, Adler and Banner finally made their timely appearance. The pair had rolled up their sleeves and were mopping their sweaty foreheads with the hem of their shirts, almost indistinguishable from the honest, working-class Irishmen until Adler spoke in a thick, foreign accent.

‘All fixed,’ he announced proudly. ‘But I recommend a paint job, the house is looking very sorry in some places.’ He watched Erik wolf down his last morsel of pie, and scowled. ‘You’ve been eating this entire time?’

Erik merely shrugged.

‘I’ve put together something for you too, Mr Adler.’ Charles produced two bags in either hand. ‘For your troubles.’

‘Aw, you shouldn’t have,’ said Adler, but he looked extremely delighted. ‘Look Banner, pies and beer!’ Banner peered into the bag and cracked a wide, ferocious grin.

Charles placed one more bag in front of Erik, which prompted an enquiring look from the German. ‘For the poor chap you borrowed the army lorry from.’ Charles explained. He decided to push his luck. ‘Tell him he has a round of drinks on me, too, for letting you come to my pub.’

Erik’s eyes twinkled. ‘Now that’s just bad for business, Charles. He’ll be demanding another round the next time we ask... that is, if we’re still welcome to visit?’

There was no helping it. Charles Xavier surrendered to madness. ‘Always, old friend. As for the man’s drinks, I'll put it on your tab.’ He flashed a coy smile. ‘My shed does need a paint job.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This took a while. Years, in fact. Was it worth the bloody long wait? Probably not. I struggled the most with the dialogue, so apologies if the Germans speak English too well to be believable. I'm giving it the Hollywood treatment, you see! *despairs*
> 
> I took a lot of historical liberties (no surprises there), but I did do a bit of research about Curragh Camp and the Irish army. This particular site was my bible, the Wikipedia of all things Curragh: http://www.curragh.info/home.htm
> 
> Chomping at the bit to write the next chapter. Maybe I'll even finish the damn thing before Dark Phoenix comes out!
> 
> Neo, 24-02-2018


End file.
